ToC Saint Giles's Round-house was an old detached fabric, standing in an angle of Kendrick Yard. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. At last, after a long rumbling journey in a stuffy windowless van, she reached Canongate Prison—for Holloway had its quota already. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. However, to cut a long matter short, my proposal's this: —I've taken a fancy to your bantling, and, as I've no son of my own, if it meets with your concurrence and that of Mrs. “Stop! Don’t put your face there.
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